


riches & wonders

by oephelia



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Domestic, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Moving In Together, Post-Season/Series 03, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, absolute sappiness from beginning to end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 22:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20053195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oephelia/pseuds/oephelia
Summary: Steve's teetering on the edge of something, all alone.His eyes meet Billy’s.They’re teetering on the edge of something, together.(or a handful of the bricks that build steve and billy a home.)





	riches & wonders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uncaringerinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncaringerinn/gifts).

> a small, clumsy, heartfelt thing for erinn, who sent me dreamy-eyed billy when things were very bad. consider this a kiss on the forehead from across the ocean please.

Billy’s mouth is soft and open. 

It’s not the first time that Steve’s eyes have caught there, at the pinkness, the wetness, the closeness of it. It’s not the first time that Steve’s wondered whether Billy means it when that mouth curls and its corners say, sly, _kiss me kiss me, bite me bite me, eat me eat me_. 

It _is_ the first time that Steve’s known what it would taste like, been sure of it, because Billy’s in Steve’s kitchen, in Steve’s apartment, pale gray early morning, brushed his teeth in Steve’s bathroom with Steve’s toothpaste, spat Steve’s mouthwash down Steve’s sink, is drinking Steve’s coffee, eating Steve’s peanut butter from the jar with a spoon that’s been in both their mouths. 

There’s no bread. 

His mouth must taste like Steve’s, just like Steve’s. And Steve’s never been so aware of his tongue behind his teeth, the slick roof of his own mouth.

The spoon’s back in place. Billy says _got work_ around it, and it’s sticky sounding, so gross, Steve wants to lick it out of his mouth. He says _should probably fuck off outta your hair_. He says _thanks for letting me crash_.

Steve says _any time_ and what he means is _do you have to go_, what he means is _will you come back_, what he means is _I think I just realised everything all at once_, what he really really means is _please stay_. 

He’s teetering on the edge of something, all alone. 

His eyes meet Billy’s.

They’re teetering on the edge of something, together.

~

Billy says _thank you_ and _sorry_ now. When his mouth isn’t saying them, his eyes and his hands and the curl of his shoulders and the dip of his Adam’s apple say them, over and over, _sorry_ and _thank you_ and _thank you_ and _sorry_ and _sorrythankyousorrythankyou_. 

He’s so grateful. He’s so sorry. Bitter and choked out. Worse, heavy and soft and true. Worst yet, rolling down his cheeks, salty warm and wordless.

Steve says _don’t c r y_ like every boyfriend in every movie.

Steve says _it’s okay y’know_, when he knows and Billy knows and they know each other knows that neither of them can know that for sure. Steve says _hey hey hey it’s okay_ like some slick-haired soft-handed crooner in the low light.

Steve says _c’mere_ and pulls Billy, wet face first, into the place where his neck meets his shoulder. 

Steve says _Billy_ like it’s a word he’s only just learned, round and clumsy in his mouth, and one of his big big hands rubs circles in the small of Billy’s back.

Steve says _shut up_ when Billy tries to move, murmurs it against his ear.

Steve says _so whadda ya think_ as Billy’s rubbing wetness away with the heels of his hands, breath clotting in his closed up throat, his stuffy nose, feeling pink and hot and malleable. _You don’t have to say yes._

And Billy owes so much already, he thinks, what’s one more kindness. What’s a home, freely offered, what’s another pair of open arms. 

_You can s t a y if you want. Stay for real._ What the fuck even is that.

He wants it, and he doesn’t want to want it, and he’s sorry and he’s grateful and Steve’s thumb is hot over his mouth before he can say either. _Yes or no, Billy._

Billy nods. 

~

Billy’s adding butter and basil to microwaved Campbell’s Classic Tomato and calling it cooking.

Neither of them can cook for real, but the radio’s on and he’s barefoot in Steve’s kitchen and there’s a notch between his eyebrows, serious. 

Steve can’t look away.

Billy’s making grilled cheese like a real all-American boy, Wonder Bread and Kraft Singles and too much butter. 

Steve thinks maybe Billy hasn’t noticed him yet, music loud. 

Billy’s shredding a couple extra slices of cheese to stir into the soup. He pinches up the stray bits and eats them, absent-minded, unselfconscious about it, like those TV chefs that sample and taste test and poke at their food while they make it. It’s _dumb_, it’s weirdly inexplicably _sweet_, it’s the best thing Steve’s ever seen. 

_Honey, I’m home_ he says and Billy says _fuck off_ without even looking up, like there aren’t two bowls steaming on the counter and two sandwiches hissing in the pan. 

_Is that how you’re gonna talk to your man_ Steve says, like an asshole _after the day I’ve had._

Billy rolls those blue blue eyes, says _poor baby_, doesn’t mean it even a little bit. 

It’s a flavor of normal Steve’s never tasted before and Steve wants it for as long as he’s allowed to keep it.

~

Billy drops a mug of coffee. The mug shatters, coffee everywhere, mostly the floor but also, bright-hot, burning through Steve’s t-shirt.

He used to break things just to see the reaction, just to _see_, but now he surprises himself. His hands shake. Things fall and he doesn’t always remember holding them. 

Steve, a second too late, says _shit_ and it comes out loud. Strips off his t-shirt so they can both see the pinkness. 

Billy says _shit_ too, but quieter, _shit, I’m sorry_. 

Steve steps forward, and Billy steps back. Steve’s brow crinkles up, and his nose too. 

Billy takes another step back, then another, goes to the sink, doesn’t want Steve to know that for a second he thought -- he _thought_. It doesn’t matter, because Steve does know, knows lots of things and Billy best of all. 

When he turns back, Steve says, _you gotta know I wouldn’t_. Billy passes him a dripping wet washcloth. Steve holds it, Billy’s hand with it, against the sore spot, and his eyes are very big. _Don’tcha?_

And Billy surprises himself again when he says _no yeah, I know_ and means it. Steve hasn’t, and wouldn’t, and his body doesn’t always get it immediately, but his brain knows it, and the thing that squirms in his stomach knows it, and his body always catches up. 

Says it again, from the chest, _I know_. 

Their hands brush as they pick up sharp ceramic shards. He won’t ask Steve the same, feels braver, maybe, than he was, but not that brave. Still, Steve’s big big eyes reflect his _I know_ back to him. 

_I know you wouldn’t._

~

Billy’s hair glows, backlit by the gold of late afternoon. Steve wants to touch, and he’s getting so much _worse_ at not doing what he wants, recently. He’s buzzed, and he’s spineless, and everything he knows is wanting Billy.

But he’s stretched out on his back, feeling like the mattress’ll swallow him, and Billy’s up there, upright, haloed bright.

_Come down here_ Steve says _I don’t like your attitude._

And Billy’s also spineless, or buzzed, or both, and almost as bad at not doing what Steve wants as Steve is. He lies back, and like this Steve can’t see his face as easy but his head is so close to Steve’s shoulder that he can hear the white-noise-rustle of Billy’s hair against the cotton sheets.

_You looked like Bonnie Tyler up there_ Steve says. Turns his head to face Billy, reaches over to pick the curl off his forehead, twist it between his fingers.

_Fuck offa me_ Billy says and lets him. Turns over, even, so he’s facing Steve, so his head isn’t just close to Steve’s shoulder, it’s leaning on it, cheek pressed into the shoulder seam of Steve’s sweatshirt. Like this, it’s easy for Steve’s hand to keep moving, to drop the curl he’s tugging and slide into Billy’s hair for real, where it’s thick and scalp-warm and only a little stiff with product. 

Like this, Steve can feel the damp heat of Billy’s breath through the fabric. Like this, he can feel the hitch in it when his little finger brushes the peach-soft rim of Billy’s ear. 

_You make me wanna spoil you_ Steve says, like a secret.

Billy pinches the bare skin where Steve’s top rides up, sharp but not very mean. Leaves his hand there afterwards, like maybe that was the point all along. 

Could be that Steve moves first, tugs Billy’s head back with his fistful of hair, pushes all his want into Billy’s mouth and then licks it back out tasting like weed and ease and something greasy. Could be that Billy moves first, pushes Steve flat out and crawls over him, thighs pulling his jeans tight, kisses him stupid, hot red tongue first. Could be that they don’t kiss that afternoon at all. Could be that Steve has his lazy golden Sundays mixed up and head over heels and dripping sticky into each other.

It doesn’t much matter. 

He’s beginning to believe he has a whole lifetime to figure it out.

~

Billy talks, and Steve listens.

_It won’t stick_ Billy says with his forehead pressed to Steve’s _people like us don’t get to have this._

_I’m gonna be just like him_ Billy hiccups, drunk _what’s that stupid fucking movie say when you grow up your heart dies oh god Steve you shoulda just put me down like a dog._

_Arentcha sick of me yet_ Billy murmurs into Steve’s neck with his come flaking on Steve’s stomach _dontcha sometimes wish, wouldntcha trade me in if there was someone else who’d have you._

_I’m so tired_ Billy says into the darkness _I’m so tired and I’ve never done a right thing in all my life Stevie baby isn’t that funny_ and laughs till it cracks in his throat.

_Tell me what you want_ Billy asks, sounding helpless and young _tell me what I want._

_Say you’d miss me_ Billy whispers when Steve has two fingers crooked in him _say you would god say you would._

There are scary, poisonous, sharp things in Billy, like the tick’s been pulled out of his skin but its mouth’s been left behind, teeth buried deep and burrowing deeper. He talks a lot and most of it is for play or for show or just for the sake of saying something, but Steve listens.

Thinks, if Joyce Byers hadn’t moved away, she’d know what to say with her new-penny smile and her open doors.

Can’t do anything but listen, and care, fingers wrapped tight around Billy’s, mouth still against his skin, breathing like the ebb and flow of a distant ocean. 

_We’ve got this I’ve got you you’ve got me the world’s got both of us just breathe with me just sleep with me just close your eyes and dream with me._

For every vomited late-night confession, for every tooth worked loose and laid bloody on the white open sheets of the bed they share now, Steve thinks Billy’s daylight hours are longer, and brighter, even though summer is long over. 

They’re going to be okay.

~

Billy gets dressed in closed-curtain half light. Shimmies into his jeans like a kid after a swim meet, like Steve isn’t watching, bleary-eyed and halfway to hard and achingly adoring. Like the grainy shadowy shape of him, the sounds of movement in the bathroom through thin walls, the smell of coffee brewed too-bitter isn’t all a dream on the brink of waking. Like this is going to be their everyday, and Billy’s not scared.

He must blink, because Billy’s there at the end of the bed and then he’s in the doorway, still half-dressed, toothbrush in his mouth.

_Should call off work and come back to bed_ Steve says _today isn’t real._

Billy says something indistinct around his mouthful of mint-froth.

Steve wants to bury his fingers in him and crumple him up tight, then lay him out again and, gently, gently, press out all the creases.

Billy disappears again to spit.

Steve dreams in the white marks fingers leave when they squeeze and pinch and cling. He wakes up, mid-morning, warm warm warm.

~

Billy gets a raise. Billy dances while he vacuums the box they call their living room, too small to do much living in. Billy finishes work on the Camaro, and takes Steve for a spin, too fast down back roads, and his hands only shake a little. Billy goes to Indianapolis once a week to see a specialist about his fucked up no good brain. Billy hooks his little finger round Steve’s when they’re out together, and it’s the bravest thing anyone’s ever done for Steve. Billy learns how to make spaghetti carbonara that tastes just like it does at Enzo’s and they eat nothing else for a week. Billy wears Steve’s cologne and winks at himself in the mirror, tongue between his teeth. Billy spends more time with Max than he did when they were living with each other, and when she hugs him he only sometimes makes a noise like he’s been punched. Billy smiles and smiles and smiles, and cries and cries and cries, and there’s less poison in it every time.

Billy talks about bigger flats and cross-country roadtrips and getting a degree and getting a _dog_, and it’s all contradictory and Steve isn’t sure he’s serious about any of it, but Billy talks about the future like he’s planning to be there for every second of it. 

Steve started a tally, at the beginning, for every tiny victory and every good day, lines pressed so fiercely to paper that, now, when he runs his fingertips over the page he can feel them all. He’s not sure when he lost count, when life became more pencil mark than blank space, when normal went from possible to probable to _right there_ in their hands.

But he never stops noticing. Never punctures the thing inside him that swells and swells and rises and rises and lifts him onto his tiptoes with the promise of tomorrows and tomorrows and tomorrows.

~

Billy’s scars are silvering, the marks like huge open-mouthed kisses, over his ribcage, over the softer flesh of his abdomen.

Sometimes Steve thinks they feel colder, the seams of him, than the hot hot skin they hold together. 

He could be imagining it. Sometimes he can’t think about anything but the way Billy still trembles a little under him, gooseflesh shimmering over the places Steve’s fingers touch, light so light. Sometimes he can’t think about anything but the violence of it and it’s his turn to tremble, curled around Billy’s body, ear pressed to his heart. 

Tonight, Steve’s mouth is on him, reverent, fingers slotted between Billy’s ribs pressing him down and down, Nina Simone playing through the walls, _lilac wine, sweet and heady_, Steve’s thumbs pressing at the edges of the scar that blossoms right in the centre of his chest.

Billy’s eyes blink suddenly, glassily open.

_I think I love you, baby_ he says, thick. 

Steve looks up at him.

_You think?_

~

Billy’s late but Steve doesn’t worry, anymore, that he won’t show.

Gets nervous anyway, but nervous the way he hasn’t been since middle school dances, or Nancy’s window, a fluttering, uncertain, hopeful feeling that aches in his cheeks like an unsmiled smile, rises from his belly like an unlaughed laugh. Eyes on the slow slow clock. Eyes on the door. Twelve steps from the register to the back room, twelve back again. Twelve, twenty four, thirty six, forty eight.

He is buoyant. He is _boyish._

The bell rings, Billy appears.

Says _can’t be me you’re waiting for, sweetheart, can it._

Their smiles meet in the middle.

~

Billy’s sitting on their kitchen counter, eating peanut butter from the jar with his fingers like no one’s ever taught him anything, shower damp and prettier than anything Steve’s ever seen. More solid, more touchable every day. Kissable biteable edible and right there.

_You want something?_ Billy asks, legs spread wide enough for Steve to fit between, lashes still water-spiked. It would be hot if his voice wasn’t peanut-butter-gummy. 

_Slut_ Steve says, foolish fond, and slips into the gap anyway. _You gonna eat real food this morning? I bought those gross bagels you wanted._

_Maybe_ Billy says, and tilts his head up. His thighs are warm under Steve’s hands. His mouth is soft and hungry against Steve’s. _You’re so good to me, babe._

And Steve suddenly wants to cry with it, the relief of it, the certainty, the sun that glows behind Billy’s eyes and a thousand other things too, their kitchen, the smell of Billy’s too-sweet shampoo, the far-away sound of traffic, the infinite possibility and the absolute present. 

Doesn’t realise the tears are actually falling until he feels Billy’s hands holding his head in place, thumbing the wet away. 

_All good?_ Billy says, eyes searching.

And Steve says _never better_.

**Author's Note:**

> please come find me in the comments or on my tumblr ([oephelia](https://oephelia.tumblr.com) / [oepheliawrites](https://oepheliawrites.tumblr.com)) with yr thoughts, whatever they may be ? 
> 
> there is now a r t ! actual a r t made for this fic ! [find it here !](https://oepheliawrites.tumblr.com/post/186868434891/sometimes-forever-is-just-a-half-eaten-jar-of)
> 
> title credits to [the mountain goats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHF80iDFvuI)
> 
> (the entire s o n g is a balm to the soul but these lines specifically are the backbone of this fic:
> 
> we show great loyalty / to the hard times we've been through
> 
> we are filled with riches and wonders / our love keeps the things it finds  
and we dance like drunken sailors / lost at sea, out of our minds)


End file.
